Snape knew he was in trouble when he started to take daily trips to the base of the Vulcan de Fuego. He would close up shop at the usual time-though more recently he had started locking his door five or ten or even twenty-five minutes early, eager to be on his way. It wasn't close enough to walk, quite-at least not in a few hours' time-so he would go by foot until his only company were the howler monkeys and then he would Apparate.

It was an alien world. Mild to moderate strombolian explosions ejected material up to 150 meters in height and produced ash plumes rising up to approximately 800 meters. Light ash falls would occur from time to time, turning the lush green flora a uniform grey.

Sturm und drang and fog, indeed.

When it got dark enough that the fauna started getting bold, Snape would Apparate home. He would have a finger or two of Boj and lie in bed, watching shadows chase each other across the ceiling until sleep claimed him.

Sometimes his dreams made him blush.

He had started frowning at his potion when it came time to take it. He noted this one evening when he happened to glance in the mirror, and the next morning he noted his frown again. It was a peculiar frown for his angular face: it wasn't just the corners of his mouth that turned down, but his bottom lip pouched out. In fact, looking closely, it wasn't so much a frown as a pout. He was pouting. He was pouting at his potion. He was pouting at the unfairness of it all.

Snape glared at himself over the pout. He was Severus Snape. He didn't believe in fair. And he certainly didn't pout.

He stopped looking in the mirror before he took his potion.

He spent less and less time in the front of his shop, and more and more time brewing in the windowless storage space, expanding his stocks beyond all usefulness. One day he tried to squeeze yet another bottle of Ne Natator Aurem onto the shelf and the bottle at the other end was pushed off and fell, scattering brittle bits of broken glass and bright blue elixir all over his tiled floor.

This was bloody ridiculous. He was sulking like a lovesick schoolboy. What did he have to lose? His privacy? His freedom? His serenity? That last was a laugh. Any comfort that he had drawn from tranquility had been smashed to smithereens when Miss Granger had barged into his shop almost three months previous.

Perhaps it was time to retire Hector Lopez.

September 23, 2019

"Esta cerrada!" he called, not bothering to look up. Carefully, he finished packing the last of his stirring rods into the leather haversack. He had sold the shop to a grocer the week before and now there were only a few more odds and ends to pack.

The footsteps at the door paused but did not retreat.

Bloody tourists, thought Snape. So relentlessly persistent. Hang up a "Closed" sign and they only take it as a challenge.

"Largo de aqui!" he said, hefting the bag over his shoulder. "Out!"

He turned the full force of his glare towards the form silhouetted against the late afternoon sun.

Oh.

She stepped into the shop gingerly, as if unsure of her welcome. He watched her take note of the empty shelves and the vacant surfaces.

"Tiene usted algo para desfase horario?"

"Pardon?" Gap in the...schedule?

"Malestar que presenta una persona cuando viaja de un pais a otro debido al cambio del horario?"

Snape started laughing. "Jet lag. You'd like something for jet lag."

Granger made a face. "Doesn't translate?"

"Not precisely, no." Snape felt something relax in his chest that he hadn't realized had been wound tight.

"And here I thought I was being so smooth." She glanced down at the floor, playing with a curl that had been artfully loosened from her well-coifed hair.

The shock of seeing her had overwhelmed Snape for a moment, but now looking at her he could see she had put some not inconsiderable effort into her appearance. She wore dusky red dress robes that ended just above the knee, and though the dress wasn't precisely tight, it was just fitted enough and just translucent enough to give a very tantalizing hint of what was underneath. Her well-toned legs were encased in sheer black stockings, and Snape couldn't help wondering if they went all the way up or if she was wearing suspenders. And then he found himself speculating about what her knickers might look like and from there his train of thought somehow arrived at the maddening question of whether she was even wearing any.

He cleared his throat. "The next part wasn't half bad, though," he offered, his voice slightly strained.

"Thank you," she said, a little primly. "I've been working on my Spanish." She seemed to be having trouble meeting his eyes.

"Unfortunately, it doesn't matter," Snape said, watching closely for her reaction. "You see, I don't sell folk remedies anymore."

Granger nodded, glancing at the bare walls once more before her eyes settled somewhere around the level of his chin. "That's a shame," she said. She took a deep breath. "You see, the kids are at Hogwarts and I was thinking-hey, I'm a witch, my best friend is Head of Aurors, and I can get as many blooming Portkeys as I could blooming want. I figured...I might commute. Only there's this pesky seven hour time difference."

Snape guffawed. He'd tried so hard to come up with a way to eat his cake and have it, too. And now here was Miss Granger, showing up on his doorstep without so much as a by-your-leave and telling him that he could have everything that he had thought he wanted.

Miss Granger looked confused at his laugh and then a bit upset, but she lifted up her chin and met his eyes square on. "In other words, Severus, I tried to go on with my life, but I missed you. More than I expected to. So much that I couldn't let it be. I'll admit that I tried for a good while, but Merlin help me, I can't. And I can't leave everything behind, but I realize it wasn't fair of me to ask you to do so, either. Could we go halfsies?"

Snape had quieted and was watching her steadily. Her eyes were huge and liquid and hopeful.

Snape shook his head. "It wouldn't work." Her face fell.

He walked to her and threaded his arm around her back, drawing her against his chest. She resisted a minute, but then rested her head by his heart.

"You see," he said, gesturing to the bare walls of his showroom, "I've sold the shop."

"But-" Her voice was muffled by his shirt.

"No, no commuting for you, Miss Granger," he said, sternly, into her hair. It smelled of lemons. "I've already had some offers from private apothecaries, and I happen to have an interview with St. Mungo's on Thursday. And not as Hector Lopez, either."

"You-"

"In about sixteen hours, I was going to show up on your doorstep," he told her. "With roses."

Miss Granger slipped out of his embrace and took a step back. "I'd better get going, then," she said, giving him an overly wide-eyed look. "I wouldn't want to miss that."

"Oh, no. You don't get to leave yet," Snape growled, drawing her close again. His mouth was against her neck and the hand that wasn't in her hair was beginning to slide its leisurely way up her thigh. "At least not until I've discovered if you're wearing suspenders..."

The End